It has been two moons since Duskit was banished from his home Clan, his family. Darkstar and Nightfrost think about him each day, and have never breathed a word to Hollypaw, Coalpaw, or Ravenpaw, who retain no almost memory of their brother who left them. All they know is that he is a light-pelt.

"I miss him," Nightfrost sighed.

Darkstar glanced over to his forlorn mate, who sat behind him in his den. Standing, he turned his paws and faced her. Over the many days that had passed since she had last been able to say goodbye, the tom had seen the light slowly fade from his love's crystal blue eyes.

"I know."

"What if he is dead?"

Darkstar's head snapped back around to face ahead of him, so that Nightfrost may not see the pain in the eyes he squeezed shut, his ears pinned flat to his skull. "He was trained well to survive."

ShadeClan's leader listened as the moss of his nest shifted. His mate laid down and curled up, her once soft and glowing pelt dull in the shelter of his nest. Soon her breathing grew even and deep. Darkstar left his den.

In the two moons that had passed, not a single lightpelted kit had been born since. Clambering up to the top of his high rock, he never let his eyes drift from Silverpelt. "StarClan, tell me my son lives," he whispered.

Yet, as much as he wished he knew if StarClan heard him, he could only hope. He had uttered this secret prayer for countless nights. Not once did he receive an answer. Either he wasn't supposed to know, and they refused to tell him, or...yes. That must be it.

Withered and defeated, Darkstar slunk back to his esteemed den and curled around Nightfrost who so needed his support.

Dustkit. My name is Dustkit, he thought, his weary paws carrying him numbly forward as they had been for the last two moons. Almost every day he spent looking for something. But what? He felt hopeless, foolish, ambling on without a clue as to what he was doing, why, or how.

It was dark now and the moon had risen, but he couldn't trust himself to sleep. Instead he hunted, prowling lazily through underbrush whenever he caught a whiff of prey. In his mind, his father's voice echoed in his mind. Dustkit had to make up the voice, for he had forgotten what it sounded like.

Paws close together, tail down, belly low. Bend your legs, it told him. The tom paid it no heed, for exhaustion swarmed his logic and stole the clarity from his thinking. When he grew sore from trying and coming up fruitless, he found a bush and huddled close to it, finally letting his eyes close and succumb to sleep.

The next morning, Darkstar woke with a twinge in his neck. His muscles were tense and his fur, normally a powerful frame cloaked in a mesmerizing black, seemed muddled with dust and unkempt.

"Remember when you were so excited to have kits? When we became mates and your name was still Darktuft?" Nightfrost's voice, which struggled through the morning air behind him, drifted to his ears.

He turned so he may see the profile of his face. "Yes."

A small hum came in response from the she-cat, who slowly stood. "I do as well," she mewed.

As his mate made her way past him, her tail brushed his and gently cupped his chin before slipping down his cheek and returning to her side. With a final glance, she left.

Darkstar could only look on as she exited, a feeling of dread wash over him as he realized he must organize the dawn patrols. With a look at the sky, he knew most of his Clan would be up already.

His deputy, Rowanshade, seemed to sense his fatigue, and shot him an understanding look before standing forth to address the Clan. "For the dawn patrol I would like Stormpool to take Hawktail, Cloudfern, and Halfsnake to see to the borders, and hunt if you see anything," he meowed.

With the unanimous dipping of dark heads in acknowledgment, they peeled themselves away and left in silence. It was ShadeClan tradition. Rowanshade proceeded to nod to a few warriors that remained, who knew it was time to collect their apprentices and head to the Tree, a dead willow not far outside of camp that was used for battle training. However, with Hawktail gone, the deputy would act as Ravenpaw's mentor today.

Three smaller cats, the apprentices, were at their mentor's sides in no time. Ravenpaw seemed visibly uncomfortable at the fact that a high ranking cat such as Rowanshade would be personally training her today. Darkstar gave one last glance around camp before slipping down to Ebonystep's den.

The remaining warriors, with no apprentice to train and no patrol to go on, shared tongues in the tranquility of morning. They were allowed to speak and did so quietly, some accompanying the elders, Thunderfoot and Dapplebreeze, to the freshkill pile for food. In turn, the retired warriors took enjoyment in telling stories in the clearing of camp. ShadeClan greatly respected their elders and listened with enthusiasm.

"What does Telling Rock say to you?" Darkstar mumbled as he entered the medicine den.

Ebonystep turned to the powerful tom, who right now looked absolutely downtrodden with defeat. And why, she didn't understand. Nor could she. "When it speaks I can hardly understand lately," she admitted.

As if he didn't hear her answer, his ears flattened to his head and his lip curled into a bemused grimace. "Light-pelts, dark-pelts, why does it matter? Why do we treat them so differently? Why...?"

The medicine cat blinked in surprise, but quickly her expression was replaced with one of composure. "You know why," she mewed gently.

Darkstar seemed to crumple in slow motion to the floor of the den. Now Ebonystep was concerned. She ran her tail over his back, discreetly trying to feel for fever as her tail brushed his ears and nose as she turned to tend to her herb stock.

"I'm going to be honest with you, but something is wrong. I'm not a mouse brain," she told him.

"I know," he grumbled, defeated.

What is happening to me? he thought.